Midnight City
by Bardic Jester
Summary: When Theodore Nott wakes up with the worst possible hangover, he realizes he can't remember what happened the night before. What actually happened? Did he get into a fight? And how does Hermione play into it?
1. Echoes of Mine

Author's Notes: This story is set in an alternate Hogwarts. The students of Harry Potter's year are now in their seventh year. In this Hogwarts, the students have had a normal student experience at Hogwarts. There has been no Quirrell or Chamber of Secrets. Voldemort has not returned, but Voldemort's actions years before did occur. Hope you enjoy!

Midnight City

Three cigarettes, a cut upper lip, and the worst possible hangover. Theodore Nott woke disoriented. His mouth was arid and sharp. Each breath was short. Something was stealing his air; his inhales only partial: break, break, breaking. The length of his face was stretched; the cut split as he tried to move. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with decaying teeth. A chain of gunk filled the back of his eyes to his stomach, rotting everything it touched. He felt awful.

He glanced at the other beds around him, but they were all empty. What time was it? There were no windows in the basement room. He must have slept in. It was not anything special.

He was still in his clothes from the night before. His jeans were impossibly tight, and his boots were laced. The sheets were still properly folded on his bed. He had just laid over top of them. His memories of entering the room were blurry. He remembered experiencing his entrance, but anything more than that was gone.

The best action was to return to sleep. His current state was inoperable. But the aches kept his eyes open. No comfort was afforded to the positions he tried to orient himself in. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to close his eyes and be brought forward in time. He'd be better in the future. Yet he knew he wasn't capable of it; he felt too shitty.

His usual hangover cure involved magic and weed, but those were both inaccessible. His stash was empty. His capacity to focus was empty. The exhaustion was holding his head down, denying any possibility of concentration. Instead he resolved to keep lying. It was easier. He did not need to try. And if he did try, it would not be any better. He'd still be stuck feeling like shit.

The Slytherin senior's dorm was long and narrow. Two rows of beds rested along the walls. It was situated on the edges of the Slytherin basement; its outer wall shared the same posterior as the outside wall of the school. Like all other rooms in Slytherin, there were no windows to the outside. Instead muted green torches kept the rooms in a constant sombre state.

Unlike the other rooms in Slytherin, there was one particularity to the seventh year dorm: it had a door to the outside. The male and female dorm rooms respectively were the only unofficial exits of the whole school. It was a fact broadly known but never confirmed. Everyone stayed in a willing disbelief of the doors' existence. All of the faculty was aware of the exits, but ignored any claims about them. Nott believed they were trying to make up for the lack of windows. Slytherin was such a despondent place without sunlight. It was only through their ease of access out of the school in their final year that any of the students had any hope or knowledge of the outside. The prospect kept the house quiet and subdued. Rarely anyone complained, fearing a potential removal of the perk.

Nott wondered whether he should smoke one of the cigarettes. Little point having them without using them. He did not usually smoke, but given the opportunity was not against it. Three was a strange number. How did he end up with such a peculiar number of them? One would have implied he saved it for himself; two would have implied for himself and a girl. Three was odd, he couldn't think of a specific context requiring that many. He did not have any at the beginning of the night, so he must have asked someone to possess them.

If he wanted to smoke them though, he would need to head outside. The prospect seemed counter intuitive. His eyes felt as though they were being dragged back towards his stomach. As if someone were pulling on the veins behind them. A sadistic shadow being hiding behind his vision, whose mission was his constant discomfort. He had a feeling it bared resemblance to him the night before, bestowing the hangover onto his future self. What an asshole.

Nott was not a big fan of the sun either. Even before he started to live in the closed coffin of Slytherin, his experience had not been enjoyable. When he was younger he lived in a large house; many would call it a mansion. It contained many statues and pieces of art. Nott had never been sure of their ages, but knew they were old enough to be fragile. His grandfather would insist on limiting their exposure to the sun or any bright lights. The rooms were kept at a consistently dimmed light. Nott had often wandered through the halls wondering what the time of day was, whether the sunlight would be folding into the room or resting above the window frame.

He owned a large pair of sunglasses to fix his issue. They were thick and black: the two necessary components as far as he was concerned. He didn't need anything stylish. Simple and practical were his focuses. Plus, stylish sunglasses were not very punk rock.

The glasses were resting on his bedside table, in the place where his wrist watch was supposed to be. He used his wrist watch as an alarm clock. Where the wrist watch was, he had no idea, but the glasses were awfully convenient. No reason to dwell too much on the watch; he had probably thrown it across the room without realizing it. Or dropped it in a pile of his belongings the night before. It would not be the first time it happened.

He brought himself before the exit to the outside. In a groggy trance he trudged through the air; his hair was messy and flat. His left leg hurt when he stepped on it. He started to wonder if he had left himself any more surprises from the night before. The gaps in his knowledge were slowly becoming larger; his hazy conception of what transpired was becoming insufficient.

"_Pathos,_" the words barely escaping his dry lips. His voice cracked on the second syllable. The door opened on command, and he left the dorm.

The door lead to a tight and steep stair case. He grabbed the rusted handrail with apprehension, hoping not to lose his balance. His head still lead drowsy; his legs begged to be folded beneath him. The whole of the upper part of his body felt as though it was being pushed downwards. If he lost his balance on the stairs, it could be dangerous. In hindsight, he was surprised he was able to get down them the night before. He had never thought of himself as a graceful person. The amount of times he had almost fallen down the stairs completely sober was staggering. Surely the risk had been increased at the level of intoxication he was the night before. "Goddamn," Nott let slip through his lips as the revelation of past danger returned. It was one of those moments where all of the parts come together: an epiphany of proximity to death, and fragility of life. He was only one step away: one missed step away.

Outside the sun was bright and belligerent. Nott took out his sunglasses. His personal 'fuck you' to the light. The sharpness of the luminance felt intensified by his hangover; like the wave were stabbing at his eyes. His skin twitched, and his lip quivered.

He brought one of the cigarettes to his mouth. The grounds were empty. A single bird flew over head. It was too far away to be identified. Nott decided to call it a spy; he lit a match. The spy was drawing circles around the towers. It dipped towards the grounds, but was cautious to avoid getting too close. For if it did, then it would not be a good spy. Nott took a drag.

When he exhaled, Nott noticed the trail. It was subtle. A weak track of magic lining the grass. The pace was almost distinguishable from the constant aura of magic emanating from Hogwarts. No one other than Nott would have been able to identify its unique trace, for he had signed it. He had left it for himself.

In Nott's childhood he had often left himself little traces around his grandfather's house. They were messages he would leave for himself. He put them there to pretend someone was talking with him; he put them there to pretend someone cared.

His parents had been arrested when he was a young age. He had no recollection of the night. He wished he did. Then he could pretend he had a personal relation to them, and what transpired afterwards.

Nott spent his childhood with his grandfather, and his grandfather's acquaintances. His grandmother had died before he was born. The rest of his family he only knew through pictures. He was not sure if any of them were still alive. His grandfather would never talk of them. Some of them looked young in the pictures, Nott imagined they would probably still be alive. But he wasn't sure of their names or their stories.

Nott's grandfather would rarely talk. When he did talk, he would use the least amount of words possible. He was a simple and direct man; his words were chosen with the utmost precision. The sentences would capture all of his intention. Rarely would he need more than one to get his point across. Nott had been taught by an expensive private tutor before coming to Hogwarts. The tutor gave Nott a commendation one day, a mark of high praise. When Nott had told his grandfather his accomplishment at the dinner table, his grandfather merely stated "as it should be." Nott never heard any more on the matter.

One of the few things Nott's grandfather could talk at length about was the history of the Nott family. He would claim that the Nott family had made their fortune at the turn of the century. They made most of their money through the selling of silks to the wizarding world. It took years for Nott to infer who the Nott family was buying the silks from. The process for silk is long and cumbersome; the Nott family could not have been producing themselves. They must have been purchasing the silk from muggles.

Nott never heard his grandfather mention it, but it seemed pretty clear. The Nott family did not initially have enough money to invest in the amount of silk worms it would have required to produce their supply. Nott had often wondered if their dependency on muggles for their fortune had affected the family's stance against muggles. It would make sense if the family wanted to hide their initial dependency on muggles, particularly at the turn of the century when anti-muggle sentiment was popular. The other topic Nott's grandfather would talk extensively was muggles; how they were ruining contemporary wizard culture. It was only venomous, and was intended to poison Nott's blood to a deeper crimson.

There were many parts of the Nott family history which his grandfather avoided. They never spoke about the family now. Nott's grandfather refused to talk about his children, and what had happened ten years prior. The silence emanated all of Nott's life. Even when Nott's grandfather had visitors, Nott was never allowed in the room. It was not proper for Nott to participate. He would sit outside of the door frame hoping they would invite him in. That at some point his grandfather would want Nott's opinion, or at least want to show off the exceptional. Maybe some recognition that Nott was there, or that Nott mattered.

Nott's grandfather was a dedicated collector. The walls were lined with aged paintings. There was a large hall near the front of the house filled with statues. Some were over six feet tall, while others were a more modest size. Combined, they must have been worth a fortune. Nott's grandfather acted as though they were at least. The traditional poses and classical aesthetics were nauseating; Nott hoped they were worth something. He could not stand them.

The hall was where he used to place down his magic paths. During the day he would map them out. He'd write a mental script; it would contain foot steps and emotional cues. It was an imaginary play between him and the statues.

He would enter the hall at midnight. Everyone else in the house would be asleep. The statues, in his head, would come alive at the striking of the clock. He was entering a city. Each statue had a story and a personality. Following his magical trail, he would walk through their experiences. He'd hear their yarns of the past and of the present. They'd talk to him about who they were, their fears, and their hopes. The statues saw a value of Nott's opinions and views. Their interest felt real and direct.

While the whole performance was planned by Nott, he would pretend an air of ignorance. As he gave the statues life, he would act as though they were talking for the first time. It was an elaborate fantasy. His time alone had enhanced his imagination; he could talk to the lifeless statues without a sense of shame or acknowledged silliness. This theatre was all he knew. There was no shame in his make believe, for all he knew was the make believe. The world, the midnight city, was the only home he felt comfortable in.

The whole act was self identification. In the statues' recognition of Theodore Nott, Nott knew that he was there. He was recognizing himself through his projected recognition in the eyes of the statues. It was how he was able to define himself. The statues would make labels: smart, brilliant, funny. The statues let Nott know who he was; let him be more than the silent kid everyone ignored. It was only years later in Hogwarts when Nott discovered how much it was actually a misrecognition. The Nott in the eyes of the statues was not him; those properties did not define who he was. He was whatever he did: his life now was the life that made him.

Nott could not remember the last time he had laid down a magical trail. He took another drag; the smoke danced before his eyes before dissipating. The situation felt strange, wouldn't he remember putting down something like this? He was surprised he even remembered how to do it. The skill was a naive conjuration he taught himself before he had studied magic. It seemed like something to him he would have lost over time.

But the trail was there. He knew it; he felt it. There was no denying it. The precise markings of his own casting was present. It was invisible to the eye. Instead it had to be felt. It was a marking on the extrasensory aura of magic, which filled the air and space. Being near it was like building static electricity walking on a carpet floor. Only, in this case, Nott had left his own charge along the ground.

Nott inhaled once more. Should he follow it? There was something special about it. Yet he had made it the night before, when he had been black out drunk. For all he knew it went around in circles, following the ravings of a partially conscious man. Did he want to find where it lead? Would it end up being worth it? He could go back into the dorm and continue to sleep. His leg still hurt; his mouth was still arid. The sunlight berated his head, he would enjoy getting out of it.

The smoke irritated his cut lip.

Those were not the only reasons. He had left behind that version of himself; the naive young boy acting in his own play. He'd grown through his years at Hogwarts. The last thing he wanted to do was return to how he used to be. It took a lot of hard work to learn that muggles are good people, and how to make friends.

The Nott of the past had been okay with his family's silent history. The history that had ignored his parents' crimes and murders. The history which denied the involvement of the family in Voldemort's activities. The history that ignored the family members who had 'died for the cause' or were in prison. The younger Nott did not know about this, but he also did not care. The younger Nott only wanted the attention of his grandfather.

The Nott of the present was not okay with his family's history. They were killers, and help perpetuate genocide. Nott was never returning to his grandfather's home. Nott was never going to forgive the actions of his bloodline. To remove his grandfather's venom, he needed to transfuse away all of his blood.

Messed hair; skinny jeans choking his legs; safety pinned shirt: Nott was punk rock. He was not going to take that shit anymore. He was knowledgeable; he was cool; he did not need those phantoms of the past.

Yet, while the trail brought back past notions of himself, he must have had a reason to put it down. He'd been black out drunk before, if only for a few times. Why had he thought yesterday was appropriate. What had brought back the memories of those statues the night before? After all of the alcohol he drank, he probably could not have held onto a clear thought. How did his mind wander back to such a particular skill he had not used in years? There must have been a reason. It may not be a particularly good reason, but he was curious now. What had brought him back then, to a place he had tried so hard to forget?

The cigarette burnt to the filter, and Nott threw it to the ground. He was going to follow the trail. At least he would follow it until his strength gave way. There were no classes at the school today. His schedule was empty. What else did he have to do?

The courtyard the staircase out of Slytherin lead to was a small corner of the school. A well trimmed yard kept the space between two of the larger towers. On all sides corridors and sections banked the grass. The exit lead to the outside, but only lead back into the school. Slytherin kids would still need to pass through sections of the school to go anywhere.

Nott's trail lead towards the east tower, opposite the exit. The spy was flying circles around the top. What was entertaining the bird to keep it occupied? It seemed like an anomaly to Nott. The spy was keeping to itself, without needing to move on. It had its place, and was content to just stay. Flying around was all the spy was content of; its goals were simple and achievable. Nott could not sympathize. He would need to be going somewhere, anticipating his next step. The spy seemed not to mind.

It made sense for the trail to lead to the east tower. Nott and Draco had started that way the night before. They were attending the Honour's Party. Draco wore a suit and smoked black cigarettes. Nott had not brushed his hair; his pants were black and tight as they could be; the shirt was a bright pink: it was not safety pinned, so it was formal enough.

"You're going in that?" Draco asked.

"Yeah." Nott replied.

"You look fucking awful you know?"

"It's great isn't it?"

Nott had a great respect for Draco, and he was sure Draco felt the same way. Draco was sharp and had the ability to command a room. Since he had entered the Slytherin House, he had been a force. People flocked to his opinion, and performed his requests. He was the opposite of Nott, who was shy and quiet. Nott though, was immune to Draco's rhetoric. Nott never followed Draco's lead. Instead of viewing Nott as a challenger or as a threat, Draco acted like Nott was an equal. Even in their first year, Draco would walk up to Nott and ask for Nott's opinion. The first time it happened Nott just stared at Draco for a few seconds before answering; he was shocked such a popular and interesting guy would seek out his view particularly.

Over their shared time the two of them rarely agreed. Draco had a much more traditional stance on things, and paradoxically he was more than willing to forget the past that shined a poor light on his position. Nott often called Draco on his bullshit. And Draco was not stupid. He was able to recognize certain flaws of the past, and was willing to admit to the tragedy his family had helped perpetrate ten years before.

Nott was actually proud of Draco's position on the matter. A large portion of Slytherin, and many of the students in the other houses had that blemish on their family name. The topic was often ignored; how could one face the knowledge of such an intimate relation to the evil? Draco never avoided the issue. He was willing to admit to it, and demanded that people recognize their past. Simultaneously he would demand people realize that the acts of parents and families were not the actions of the persons. For a lot of Draco's shitty views, Nott respected how Draco treated it.

The Honour's Party was a mandatory event for the honours students in the different years. The event occurs biannually, in which the students are asked to dress formally and mingle with other honours students and professors. Nott loathed the event. There was too much navel grazing for his liking. The whole thing was an exercising in stroking people's over sized egos. He was not a fan.

Draco had a different view on the event. "Could you at least put on a blazer or something? I'll look stupid by association if you're wearing that. You've worn more than that before at these things."

"I did, and I'm not going to again," Nott said.

"Shit, it's not that bad. Do you think it's going to hurt your image that badly if you looked like you even sort of cared about one of these events?"

"It's not that it'll hurt my image. It's that I actually don't care about the event. If I didn't have to go, I wouldn't."

"Whatever, just don't expect me to stand by you the whole time."

"I think I'll be able to deal without you."

"Cool. Daphne's having a party with a bunch of the Slytherin girls in the west basement tonight. You want to head there after?"

"Maybe. I was hoping to try and get a couple of the honours kids to drink. We've been going to these things for the past seven years, yet we've never done anything other than the shitty event. I say we try to make things a little more interesting. I'm bringing a couple of bottles." Nott took out a light blue bottle of vodka out of his shoulder bag and had a swig.

Draco grabbed the bottle from Nott's hand and had a swig himself. "We can try. They're mostly stick in the muds though, I doubt any of them will want to go through the trouble of finding a secret enough place to drink."

"Yeah," Nott took back the bottle and downed a large gulp. "But if that doesn't work out, then we'll just have a shit ton of alcohol to enjoy between the two of us.

"You know what, maybe I will stick with you for a while."

They both laughed. Draco finished his black cigarette and the two of them headed towards the east tower.

Nott's magical trail followed a similar path Draco and he had taken. The trail staggered a little; Nott obviously was not walking straight the night before. Blindly, Nott continued down the path. He had closed his eyes, the sun was too annoying.

Nott was starting to wish he had drank some water before heading out. The back of his throat felt like a vacuum with barbed teeth. Each breath cut into his mouth. His split lip agonized in the air. How did he let himself get into this state? He'd been drunk numerous times before. It's not like he did not have the foresight to predict he may feel like this if he had too much to drink. All he wanted was sleep. If he laid back in his bed then he would feel better. The pain would go away.

He left the courtyard he'd been standing in, and entered the east tower, went through the entrance way, walked through the corridor leading towards the main dining hall, passed his potions classroom, passed his classical literature classroom, and finally stopped in the north east wing outside of the dining hall. His left leg ached from the pressure of his walking.

He thought to himself that he may wish to stop momentarily to eat. Before he could come to a clear decision, Terry Boot exited a washroom to his right. Terry noticed Nott and waved him down. Nott was too tired to move in a sharp fashion; his legs felt like jelly dreaming of congealment.

Terry was tall and lanky. He towered over all of the other students. Since first year he'd been one of the tallest students in the school. Now, in seventh year, Terry was a unique presence; his height put him over all of his fellow schoolmates. Otherwise Terry looked average: no glasses, a leather bag hanging over his shoulder, scruffy looking clothes. He walked with the slow pace of someone who was not feeling well. Large bags pulled under Terry's eyes; an obvious queasiness painted his face.

"Greetings Nott," Terry began, shaking Nott's hand.

"Hey Terry," Nott was barely able to speak. The syllables were dragged through the arid wasteland of the back of his throat.

Terry laughed to himself briefly. "My friend, it does not sound like you are well." Terry was always well spoken. He had a maturity in his words that was uncommon for his age. His mind was calm and smart, which put him as one of the heads of Ravenclaw. Nott always felt sorry for him. How lonely it must feel to be so far above all of his friends and acquaintances: physically and mentally.

"I've had better mornings, surely." Nott replied.

"I think we all have. That was quite a night last night."

"Yeah? I don't seem to remember all too much of it."

"That's too bad. It was a nice finale. A good closing note to the Honours Parties. To think, we've been attending those since our first year. I think this was the first time I really enjoyed it. Thanks man, I think you really made it special." Terry spoke.

"It's my pleasure, glad you enjoyed it."

"I see you're using your sunglasses to cover your black eye. Good plan, wouldn't want one of the profs to see it. It would look awfully suspicious."

"What?" Nott asked. Terry's face changed demeanour. Nott became suspicious of the circumstances.

Terry, in a serious tone started: "your black eye. The black eye you're hiding with your sunglasses. Doesn't look like it's darkened as much as we feared it would.

A black eye? Nott had not looked at his face in a mirror all morning, but there was no chance he had a black eye. He would have felt it. It would have hurt more than his leg; he'd have felt it more than his dry throat. He moved his finger towards his eye and felt the skin around it. Good God it hurt! Just a touch felt as though he was setting off small explosions on his skin. Fuck! How had he not noticed? How could he not remember how he received it. This seemed like a pretty massive hole in his memory. It was not a small detail he could not recall.

Staring straight at Terry, Nott tried to pretend he'd known about it. "Right, my black eye. I haven't been thinking straight all morning. It's the hangover. Fuck, I was glad it wasn't worse this morning." Nott lied. "At least black eyes are punk rock." He hoped Terry would mention how he received it. His curiosity was now peaked. What happened last night?

"Yeah. You can rock it. You're lucky we broke up the fight though, you guys could have been hurt much worse." Terry noted. "Anyways, I have to grab some food to nurse my hangover. You take care. We'll talk soon."

"For sure. See you in class." Nott said.

Nott wanted to press further. Who had he fought? In his seven years at Hogwarts, he'd never been in a fight. What made last night different? The circumstances must have been pretty serious to make him fight. He was not the kind of guy to throw a punch over nothing. There had been many times others would have fought in his shoes, but he showed restraint. He liked to think restraint was one of his stronger qualities. How could he fight someone? The notion seemed absurd.

Since touching his eye, his face felt inflamed. His face was punishing him for avoiding his wound before. The cut on his lip finally made sense. Its origin was probably the same as the black eye. A fight, the concept seemed foreign to Nott. He was not the kind of guy to get into a fight. Was it why his left leg hurt too? It seemed like a plausible explanation. Yet the entire premise seemed implausible to Nott.

He decided he was going to follow his trail. Hopefully it would hold the answers he now sought. Something happened the night before. He acted like he was not himself. He put himself into the state he was now suffering. This magical trail, a game he used to play when he was a child, held the answers. He was sure of it. It would tell him who was Nott, and who he was not.

Author's Notes: This story was originally intended as a One Shot. I now believe it will probably be three chapters long. I've been trying to use a more 'pop' like style, and hope you've liked it.


	2. Within and Without

Part 2: Within and Without

After parting ways with Terry Boot, Nott followed his trail to the hall on the third floor. Tables lined the wall and were stacked orderly. Traces of streamers and party favours marked the floors. A collection of glass cups were together in a corner. The hall was the location of the Honours Party the night before. It was one of the smaller halls in the school; the proper size to comfortably fit the honours students and members of the faculty. If the trail passed through it, Nott must have returned after his night. The room looked barely tidied. The staff must have only done a rough cleaning the night before. Banners and name cards were stacked on a table, probably thrown without precision. Nott felt it was fitting, showed the disorganized nature of the event, and of the school.

The hall was rarely used for other events. Nott was unaware of what else specifically took place here. It was one of the nicer halls. The room was filled with different flourishes and details. A number of fireplaces filled one side. Carpet, a strong red, covered the floor. The ceiling was raised; expensive looking chandlers rained down over people's heads.

The room had a proper aesthetic fitting of Hogwarts. The school liked to pretend it was filled with tradition, tradition with value. Standing inside the hall the allure was evident. Brick fireplaces were covered in small indents and details alluding to founding of the school. The ornaments on the walls spoke to a long history; each named by either a noteworthy alumni or Latin phrase. An appeal to the past was assumed to mark worth. The school was good because of the chronicle through time. This hall was probably used to entertain guests to the school, either government officials or visiting men of worth.

Nott assumed the room was chosen to hold the Honour's Party to remind the student's of their responsibility to the school. The school was bestowing on them a gift of education, and needed their success once they have left the school to maintain the school's prestige. Parties and amenities for the good students were to reinforce their pedigree. If they continued to succeed, then they would enter the history of Hogwarts. Their names would join the chronicle.

Through his time at Hogwarts, Nott wondered why this history was so important. What did the history give them right now? How did the past make now better? It seemed like a backwards way of thinking. Instead, to Nott, it seemed as though looking back at the past was only an action of those in the present. Those in the past were always in their present too. There were no truths in the past, for the past never existed except in the moment of the present. Why did Hogwarts need to look like it did back when it was founded, if the Hogwarts of the moment was all that existed? The hall may try to appeal to the past in its aesthetics, but Nott was sure the room was renovated within the past ten years. It tried to hide its modernity, but the hall existed in the present just as Nott did.

The thought of it reminded Nott of his grandfather's hall. With the windows blinded and the light dimmed, it always felt to Nott that his grandfather wanted to keep the present out. If he was able to remove the sun, then the room would be in the proper time: the past. Perhaps that's why Nott always felt like the hall came alive during Midnight. At midnight, the outside and the inside were the same. There was no hiding from the elements or from the time. Midnight is the threshold of the past and the present. When a new day is introduced and the old day is lost. The moment of midnight is that ambivalent point of the new and old meeting.

The glorification of the past was prevalent throughout Nott's childhood. His grandfather loved talking of the family's past. The first story off of his tongue to any visitor was the tale of the Nott family's rise to riches. Each of the statues lining the hall was made over a century earlier. Many of the paintings were medieval with gold leaf. Nott thought they were all ugly: the art and his grandfather's views.

Nott remembered one statue in particular that had a classical look. Carved in marble, a naked man pointed towards the sky. His muscles were well shaped and defined. Curly hair donned his head; a light cloth draped off of his back. His penis was small and subtle. There was no expression on the statues face. The emotion of the work was empty. It was an idealization without character. An appeal to a time which never occurred.

The statue looked like the ones carved in antiquity. Nott remembered looking at pictures similar to it during his lessons with his private tutor. His tutor would bring large books with lush pictures of ancient works, probably by the request of his grandfather. His grandfather wanted Nott to learn about the old art and to be able to appreciate it. Many lessons were spent going over the Hellenistic shape and the revival during the Renaissance. Instead of growing an appreciation for the work, Nott felt he learned how to appreciate what the works were not. His position, currently sour, was not a fan of the proper art.

At the back of Nott's mind, he often wondered how old the statue that looked like it was from antiquity was. It is not hard to fake ageing to the untrained eye. Nott's grandfather liked to believe he was an expert on old art, but really he was a naive collector who liked the word 'classic'. Secretly Nott hoped the statue was only a replica made within the past century. It would be a private victory, and demonstrate how much of his grandfather's life was really a joke.

During some of Nott's theatre with the statues at midnight when he was younger, he named the statue Adonis. Standing in the middle of the hall, Adonis was favoured by the other statues. Adonis, Nott imagined, spoke with a deep voice. Through Adonis' speech, he exercised great control and authority. A theme often present in Nott's make believe was the wish to gain Adonis' favour. The other statues valued his esteem. Yet, this isolated Adonis from the other statues. He would only be aware or afforded the proper actions. Rarely would he be allowed to see the other statues as they were: debase and with flaws. And never did Adonis allow the others to see his own flaws.

Whenever Nott remembered the character of Adonis, a particular conversation was brought to mind. Another statue, which was more of bust, named Catherine, had told Nott a story of trying to appease Adonis. She performed well; kept her mouth shut when she was required; wrote out her lines properly; had the tutor say nice things about her, yet Adonis still ignored her. All she wanted was a little bit of attention or reinforcement. Nott, enraged, followed the magical path towards Adonis, where he was to act accordingly. With emphasized emotions, he asked why Adonis still did not acknowledge Catherine?

"Theodore, I will tell you the truth of the world," Adonis began. "Truth, loyalty and respect do not matter. They are words, which refer to nothing and no one. What's important Theodore, is power. Power and beauty, for they are both the same. In power, and in beauty you control others. In power, and in beauty you define what truth, loyalty and respect mean. I am beautiful, and as such I am powerful. And if I give away beauty and power, then I lose it. If I gave power to Catherine, then she would be able to exert her own influence over what is truth, loyalty and respect. I can't let that happen, Theodore. That's why I'm the one in the middle; that's why I'm the important one. No Theodore, I cannot acknowledge Catherine, for then I would lose who I am."

Nott felt uneasy. His hangover beat a rhythm into the inside of his head. Tired and defeated, he sat down. Leaning against a wall, he tried to position himself outside of the sunlight. His spot rested in the shadows.

A little disoriented, Nott tried to set his barrings. What time was it? He looked at his bare wrist; his watch was absent. Quietly, he swore under his breath. It had not been on his bed side table. Why had he not looked for it? He had no idea of the time, just like how he had been unaware of his black eye. A disgust for his current situation built up in the dryness of his throat. He was tired of his lack of knowledge. He was tired of feeling like shit. If it were convenient, he'd head back to sleep. But he was too far. His curiosity paradoxically was too strong. He needed to reach the end of his trail.

It seemed a little odd for the magical path to pass through the hall. For it to have been placed, Nott must have walked back through it the night before. He was not usually such a risky person. What if someone had been in the room cleaning? Considering the state he had been in, there could have been serious repercussions. Especially with the black eye, fuck, even the notion seemed absurd to Nott.

The after party had taken place in a classroom far from the hall. If Nott's memory served him well, which apparently it was not at the moment, the classroom was at the base of one of the towers. Ernie had a key. People claimed Ernie stole it off a teacher and used it as his personal party room. Admittedly, Nott could not remember why Ernie was with them at all. He was surely not one of the Honour students. Must have shown up afterwards to hit on Hannah. He always did.

Why return to the hall of the party? Nott's drunken self was incomprehensible. Almost as if he was a different person altogether. It was a headache, surely.

As far as Honours Parties went, the evening had not been special. The usual suspects were present accordingly. Nott kept to himself next to a table. The different professors discussed with Draco. They rarely approached Nott, whose clothing spoke a message of displeasure. Mostly, Nott kept silent and watched the other crowds surrounded. All of the honours kids from the different years were present, but Nott could spot those in his year. Terry was surrounded by a crowd of Ravenclaws hanging on his every word. Their attention was consumed by his presence, like metal shavings to a magnet. Hannah and Zach were the only Hufflepuffs; a couple other Hufflepuffs generally attend, but apparently none were doing well enough. The other Slytherin kids could fuck off, for all Nott cared.

Nott's attention was drawn mostly to the few Gryffindor students hanging under one of the windows. Parvati and Dean kept arguing, and Neville wore a full suit. But that was not Nott's focus. His eyes kept on Hermione Granger, alone sitting on the windowsill. She wore the most interesting outfit: what appeared to be a long black dress with a green army jacket over top of it. The jacket was zipped fully up. Her attention was self absorbed. She was ashamed of her attire; she was trying to hide.

Hermione and Nott knew each other casually. They had often talked within the halls or debated in class. Their association was largely by convenience. Hermione spent most of her time with Ron. Every once in a while they'd be joined by Harry Potter, but Nott had not seen much of that recently. Harry was a very popular kid, who was also captain of the Quidditch team. He must not have had much time for them. Neither Ron or Harry were Honours; she was alone at the event, distant. Without her support, and wearing an outfit she did not feel comfortable in. She stuffed her hands in the pockets of her jacket. Patches lined her chest.

Maybe there was some larger reason behind it, but Nott was consumed. He stared through the corner of his eye enamoured. In the back of his head, different details were imagined. What was she wearing? What was she hiding beneath that jacket? Her slim wrists buried, or her graceful fingers hidden, or ashamed of her figure in black, or the shallowness presented by her cleavage? Or perhaps nothing in particular about her body. It could have just been a convergence of little details, that made her uncomfortable with herself. Nott understood the feeling. The deep seeded unease with himself, and the shame he felt at the party. He wanted to drink. He wanted to make sure he could forget himself. But, for the first time, he wanted to discover Hermione Granger too.

Throughout the party, as Nott tried to set up an after party, the Hermione girl stayed in the back of his head. Draco handled the Slytherins, and kept up to pace with Terry. Terry was easily convinced of the plan, and the rest of the Ravenclaws quickly followed suit. Nott was more than happy to let Draco handle those two houses. He was not very good in these sorts of social environments; the longer he could keep to himself by a table, the happier he was.

Talking with Hannah and Zach was easy enough. Nott was friendly with both of them. They were natural loners at these events, being the only regular attendants from their house. The three of them often gravitated towards each other, willing to share different complaints directed towards the administration and lameness of the Honours Party. Zach was content to attend Nott's after party; Hannah gave Nott a half smile.

Hannah was a different sort of presence than Hermione. Hannah wore a tight laced shirt and a tanned skirt to her ankles. In the weeks preceding, she had dyed her hair a bold red. It was cut short and shaved on one side; she wore her bangs asymmetrically towards one side of her face. The look was well planned and unapologetic. She was confident in her form, and willing to adapt it towards her liking. Her skinny, tall, shape helped with the versatility.

Yet Nott often felt sorry for her. She was beautiful, and almost every boy in HufflePuff was in love with her. But she was smart. It was plain for her to see how shallow their advances were. They all liked how she looked, not herself. Even those who recognized she was more than her form: that she was an intelligent, confident, bold woman, still loved an idea, and not her.

Nott unfortunately had been in that latter camp. There had been many shitty situations between the two of them because of it: selfish advances, undue expectations, needless conflicting. She did not deserve any of that. Nott went through a long time of pain and shame due to his own actions. The regrets Nott felt in her presence sometimes overwhelmed his body. He'd close himself off, and lose the capacity to speak. The whole experience had been a learning process, where Nott was taught just how awful of a human being he was.

The prospect of inviting the Gryffindor kids to the party felt daunting. Students from their two houses rarely mingled. Different possibilities to how the group would react played out in his mind. A part of him hoped they would accept, just to have some of the 'good' students from the 'good' house break the rules. There was a little catharsis in the fantasy. He hoped some of them would squirm at the idea of doing something 'bad'.

The real plan, formed hastily, was to hang out with Hermione. Earlier in the night he had large ideas. He was going to show the Honours Kids, the biggest stick in the moods of the whole school, how to party. He was going to have the ultimate conclusion to the Honours Parties. But, standing next to the table, that did not matter. The others lost their value. He wanted to know why she was wearing such an ugly -but wholly amazing- jacket. She had kept her hands in the pockets the whole night. The top honours student hiding from her own party. Nott wanted to talk to her. He wanted to know why. And he wanted something more.

Her hair was tied back; her focus tied to her shoes.

Could he just walk up to her and talk? His anxiety was high. It seemed simple in theory: walk up to her, ask her to the after party, mention all of Gryffindor is invited, tell her she's pretty. Yet even the first step seemed like a leap over a wide gorge. And he was terrified to fall in.

Nott spent much of the night consumed, dreaming of walking towards her. The watch on his wrist served as a constant reminder: there was a time limit. Soon the party would end, and he would miss his window. He needed to do something, something now. His left arm started to shake; his stomach started to fold. If he failed, then could not stand himself. This was the last Honours Party. He would never have another chance. Sure, it was just some small fancy, but it was an opportunity. He'd been hiding for most of his time at Hogwarts. Years were spent by himself. He did not want to miss another opportunity. Otherwise he was just a kid again, walking through a room of statues. Dreaming of conversations; dreaming of meaning; dreaming of friends. He did not want that. He did not.

But sometimes luck comes into things.

Near the end of the party, Hannah and Zach talked with a number of the Gryffindor kids. At the end of the conversation, Hermione jumped off of her windowsill -hands still in the pockets of her jacket- and walked towards Nott. She bit the zipper of her jacket as she approached. Her large black boots left small dark traces as she shuffled her feet.

"Hey Nott," she spoke quietly.

"Hey Hermione," Nott replied, leaning against a wall.

"You're looking awfully punk rock tonight," Hermione observed. Nott could have kissed her.

With a smile, Nott responded "thanks, it's what I'm going for. I'm a big fan of the jacket, I think it looks sweet."

Hermione looked down at her jacket and sighed. "I guess it's cool," she commented with reservations. Her hands brushed the patches over her chest, and she fiddled her fingers while trying to reinsert them in her pockets. Her focus kept to the attire, until finally she unzipped the jacket. Underneath she exposed a high cut black dress. The top of which stayed at her neck line. The dress showed no cleavage, but emphasized her shape well. Nott questioned why she would want to hide it. Hermione did look relieved after unzipping it. She tried to crack Nott a smile; "I don't know why I'm wearing it."

"Looks pretty hip to me. That sounds like reason enough," Nott tried to compliment without sounding too forward.

"Thanks," replied Hermione, still sounding a bit flustered. "I was talking with Hannah, and it sounds like you're planning on having an after party. Were you planning on inviting us Gryffindors, or are you too cool for that?"

"No, no, not at all. You're all invited. This is an open party for all seventh year Honours students. I just haven't made my way over there to talk to y'all."

"Well you were sure taking your time. The party's almost over. What if we decided to leave a bit early? Or if Hannah was not gracious enough to let us know? We could have missed out on this 'open' party."

"Hey look," Nott started, "I'm sorry. I'm not very good at this. It's not like I do this all of the time. Look, to make up for it, I'll let you have one of my bottles, just for yourself."

"How much do you have?"

"Enough to incapacitate this entire room, hopefully."

"Fuck, that's a lot. Shouldn't this bottle be for Gryffindor, and not just for me?"

"This can be our little secret. No reason to let the others steal your rightly earned ware."

"They might be a little peeved that you ignored them too."

"Well, I don't fucking care about them."

"So you fucking care about me? I feel so special."

Nott regretted his choice of words: "whatever."

"Anyways," Hermione paused, "thanks for the offer, but we brought enough liquor for ourselves. We were hoping someone would plan a party, otherwise we would have had to do it all ourselves. Where are we going to meet afterwards?"

"In the stairwell on the fourth floor, to the right." Nott pointed towards the direction he was intending.

Hermione turned around. Her jacket unzipped. "Cool." She put her hands back in the pockets and rejoined Gryffindor.

That was some night. Nott breathed deeply. He felt a faint throbbing in his temples, but he could not tell if this was from trying to remember or the hangover. The hall was silent now. All of the sounds and sensations of the room were emanating from him. Surrounded by the pushed aside remnants of the Honours Party, he felt the loneliness of the night before slowly returning to him. When he first started to drink, back in sixth year, he actually expected that to go away. He would be able to stand in a room at a party, and feel like he was actually a part of something. But he could never quite achieve the goal. As if he was cursed, he was trapped as a phantom: always watching and separate. Never together.

Nott lingered in his unsated place on the floor. His hair felt musky and greasy. It dragged on his skin, and irritated his senses. The back of his throat stayed at a constant dryness, sanding each breath. If only he had drank some water before heading out. The skin around his black eye throbbed. It felt as if his heart was resting over the socket, pushing downwards with each beat.

What was he doing here? What was he hoping to gain from this magical path? It was only a game. A stupid game he used to play with himself to make up for his lack of friends. He did not need that anymore. He was cool. So what if he could not remember? There was nothing he was going to find at the end of the trail. This was all in vain.

He remembered walking through his grandfather's statues. Playing his little theatre of make believe. Deep down throughout, he used to hope for a surprise. For something to happen which he did not expect. A statue would say something new and interesting, or change the meaning of a couple of lines. But it never happened. They always fell into line, and Nott would act as the ventriloquist to each detail. None of them contained anything new or interesting. They were only Nott, or not anything else.

It had been quite a shock when Nott started to attend Hogwarts. The different kids, with their different ideas, hopes, and actions. But Nott only traded one form of social isolation for another. He was still alone, just surrounded by a crowd. It took him a few years to open up to his fellow Slytherin, and that proved to be a mistake more than a step in the right direction. The move only stopped him from being bullied directly, and instead he was being indirectly pushed. Put into situations where he would need to fulfil the others unreasonable demands.

Thank God for Draco, for he was actually the one to talk to Nott. "I know you have trouble making friends," Draco started, "but trust me man, these are not your friends. They're shitting all over you. You might think you deserve this, but you don't. This is not okay. And you're better than this. You're better than all of them. You shouldn't have to put up with it. It's not your responsibility to do their school work, or do their little shits. Fuck them Nott. You don't need them.

"They're my friends too," Draco continued "but I can't break free. I'm too dependant on them. I wish I could be as independent as you. You can do it. Don't worry about me though. I know how to handle myself. They're not going to take advantage of me. But you don't need to put up with any of their shit, and you shouldn't have to."

Nott never totally understood his relationship with Draco. Draco, seemingly without reason, was invested in Nott. Draco was the first person to stand up for Nott, and the first person to emphasis how great Nott was. Initially Nott believed Draco was only doing it to make up for Draco's past sins. Despite being best friends in the beginning of first year, Draco's later bullying of Harry Potter was so intense that Harry had to switch to Gryffindor. Nott believed Draco always regretted his actions. Was Nott just a stand in for Harry? Nott doubted it now, because he and Harry were such different people. But Nott could not think of any other reasons. He was thankful though; he may not have survived Hogwarts without Draco.

The Honours Parties had been Nott's home of friends since then. It was a dysfunctional family, Nott barely knew most of them, but they were his house. He could be punk rock in the corner; his jeans too tight to breathe. They may have been mostly statues, but they were the only family he had. The real reason he had that after party was to thank them all. To convey his true feelings towards the whole theatre.

But now he could barely remember the night. He was such a fuck up.

Who had he fought the night before?

Hopefully it was not one of the Honours kids. That would not have been the proper note to end their time together. Nott would feel bad if he had inadvertently ruined such a finale. Although Terry did not appear to be upset about the ordeal. Maybe it was not a very serious conflict. At least it must have been entertaining. Terry seemed to have enjoyed himself the night before apparently. And Terry was not the kind of person to lie. If there was someone who would call out a night for being lame or ruined, it would have Terry. Terry had such a great presence that his criticisms were rarely taken as insults. It allowed him to be more honest than most of the student body.

Who would have even fought Nott? The Honours kids were not the most eager to punch each other. They were, by large, some of the most harmless students in Hogwarts. This was not universally true, particularly in the case of Draco, who would be more than willing to fight if the need arose. But Nott and Draco would never fight each other, Draco wouldn't let it happen. Draco was too invested in Nott. Deeply, Nott just hoped that the fight had nothing to do with Hannah. She was not the kind of girl who needed boys to fight over her. She was more than capable to take care of herself. But Nott had made those kinds of mistakes before. If he did fight over her, he did not know if he could ever stand to talk to her again. He'd be too ashamed.

Resolved, Nott decided to follow his magical path. His muscles were weak. They had become sedimentary while he was sitting. As he tried to stand, each little nerve begged to stay still. His body was overwhelmingly tired, but it was not going to stop him. He was going to follow through. He was going to follow that fucking path to the end. Afterwards he would rest. There would be endless time for that then. And he'd put some ice on his eye. It would probably be a good thing.

With a quick glance over the room, Nott left the hall. He whispered a final farewell to the Honours Party. He was ready to discover where the path would lead him now. The magical sensation brought him out to stairwell on the right. It was probably bringing him towards the classroom of the after party. What truth would be contained there?

High walls surrounded the stairwell. There was barely enough room for the seventh year honours students to have met up. They had been shoulder to shoulder, hiding in the darkness. A darkness as black as the bottom of the sea, where no light has ever reached. It was where they knew they could hide from the faculty, and begin searching for a place to drink.

The path climbed the stairwell into the tower. Nott's breath became heavy, exhausted by the walk. His knuckles were slowly turning numb from his firm grip on the handrail. The ache in his left leg flared up. He felt like a wreck.

Nott followed the magical trail down towards the door of the classroom which the after party had been held the night before. Initially he was doubting whether it was the correct classroom, but once he saw the door the memories came back. Ernie was the one who chose the place. He must have joined them on the stair well; he was probably meeting up with Hannah after the Honours Party, and decided to join in the festivities. The path continued into the classroom, Nott stood for a moment wondering if the door was locked. Would it not be a shame if he came all this way to be stopped by a locked door. Such a cruel fate would be too unbearable for Nott in his current state. He reached for the door knob and began to pray. Luckily, the knob turned under his hand, and the door opened.

Nott entered the room, to find Hermione Granger sitting on a desk with her legs crossed. She was playing with her hair. A smile grew on her lips as she noticed him.

"Hey Nott."

...

Author's Notes: I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm starting to feel more comfortable with this style. Feel free to review!


	3. Heron and the Fox

Part 3: Heron and the Fox

Hermione Granger sat on the desk unoccupied. Her attention was directed towards the door. She wore a loose white button up shirt. On her legs, she had a tan skirt folded up to her lap. While standing, the skirt was long enough to extend below her knees. Hermione had adjusted it to make herself comfortable. She must have been sitting for a while.

Her look was not well kept. Traces of her make up from the night before dyed her face. The strands of her hair shot outwards in multiple different directions. She had not spent any time in the morning setting up her look. She was loose, and raw. Her face looked strained. It was a weight dragging her body downwards. She needed sleep. Nott understood the position. He too, needed to rest longer. They'd both started their mornings too early. Nott probably looked worse than Hermione. He had not changed his clothes from the night before. His hair was greasy and messy.

The black eye did not help either.

"Hey Hermione," Nott responded. His voice was hoarse. The air scratched his throat as the words dragged themselves out of his mouth. It felt like chewing sand. Instinctively Nott started to cough. He wasn't sure if it was a natural reaction, or just an action to cover up his current state. A cough would inspire sympathy.

Hermione reached behind where she was sitting and grabbed a glass of water. She extended her arm towards Nott, signalling him to take it. Trying to demonstrate his gratitude without saying anything, Nott took the glass.

His first sip felt rough, like he was forcing a pill into his system. The second sip was what brought him closer to peace. It felt like golden nectar from the most beautiful of plants. Each part of his body the water touched shivered in pleasure; a soothing massage reinvigorating the muscles. Why had Nott gone this long without grabbing water earlier? He was a fool. It would only have taken an extra minute or two, to grab something from the dining hall. The last hour, or however long it had been, -Nott still didn't have his watch- had not been worth the discomfort.

With new life, Nott drank down the glass quickly. He could feel his heartbeat in his lips. "Thanks," Nott said. "I needed that, badly."

A smile grew on Hermione's lips. "Good," she said. "Was that your first glass of water today?"

"Yeah."

"That's pretty dumb."

"Yeah."

The two of them shared a laugh.

Nott felt absurd. What was Hermione doing here? His magical trail lead to this room; his guide brought him here. Why? Why did he leave the trail in the first place? Did Hermione have something to do with it? Instead of finding more answers, he felt like he only had more questions. If he was brave, he would directly ask Hermione about it. But he was a little ashamed. He was a little ashamed that he remembered so little of what happened. And ashamed he forgot whatever happened between Hermione and himself the night before.

Instead of facing his problem directly, Nott stayed silent. He did not know how to start, or what would the appropriate response. This was not like his theatre of statues, where the lines were predetermined. He found himself in a lake, without a direction to follow. Soon, he would have to start swimming. Otherwise he would drown. There was a fear though, a paralysing fear of the unknown. Perhaps he should have just stayed in bed. His curiosity had brought him here, and he did not know how to face it.

Deep down he feared there was something he was missing. That there was some essential piece; some important factor as to why he'd laid down a magical trail the night before. And Hermione was somehow connected. Did he fuck up? Had he fucked himself over by forgetting that fact? He hoped not. After what happened between Hannah and him, he'd hoped he wasn't going to mess things up again.

"I was pretty rough myself when I woke up," Hermione said. "It's funny. I had promised myself that I would only drink a small amount yesterday, but apparently I did not feel like listening to myself. It felt like someone had slapped me across the back of my head when I woke up this morning." Hermione massaged the crown of her skull, as if examining the pain.

"Sounds pretty awful," Nott said.

"Yeah, it was. I feel a little better now. I've probably had an excessive amount of water. It's a good thing I did not finish that last glass, seems as though you needed it more than I did."

Nott chuckled under his breath. At least he was not the only one to have had a bad morning. "Thanks for that again. Can't believe I forgot to drink any water this morning."

Hermione smiled. "Memory is a fickle thing. You can never depend on it, especially after a night like we had. I'm pretty surprised I remember so much of it to be honest. Then again, I rarely forget anything." She giggled lightly at her own comment.

Initially Nott found himself smiling at Hermione's words, but his demeanour soon changed. It felt like all of his anxiety towards the holes in his memory came rushing back. Only, they did not feel like holes, more like canyons. Large canyons he had crossed the night before, but now could not imagine himself passing over them. It felt more like a miracle than anything else. At least he had not hurt himself, much.

"Nott?" Hermione asked with a concerned voice. A wave of self awareness came upon him. He had worn his feelings on his face. Hermione must have noticed how his emotions changed in reaction to her words. "Is something wrong?" She probably felt self conscious, as if she caused him to scowl.

Quickly, Nott tried to reassure Hermione. "It's nothing," Nott started. Hermione was unaffected; his words had been unconvincing. Deciding it was not worth hiding, Nott began describing his predicament. "It's just that I don't really remember last night. I mean, there's parts of it, but only disconnected bits I don't know how to fit together."

Instead of making Hermione look better, Nott's confession only made her frown deeper. She turned her gaze downwards, till she was only looking at her legs. Her face looked ashamed, uncomfortable. "What are you missing?" Her voice sounded delicate, and a little hurt.

Fuck. Nott was missing something important. He knew it now. Hermione would not act this way if he didn't. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Why did he keep doing this? Why did he feel like he was making one continuous mistake?

"I'm not sure what I'm missing." His voice cracked. The tone was emotional, as if he was hurt, deeply. Fuck, he felt like he was on the verge of tears. Get yourself together Nott! Hermione's head perked up, concerned and surprised by Nott's change. "All of today I've been trying to figure that out. Everything after when we got to the after party is pretty fucking blurry. Apparently I got into a fight? Apparently I was supposed to meet you here? I don't fucking know, and I'm fucking sick of it. I just wish, I just" Nott paused. "I should go back to bed. I'm not making sense." Defeated, Nott sat on the ground and rested his head in his hands.

With a sympathetic bounce, Hermione jumped up from her seat. She probably had not expected the morning to play out this way. She sat down next to Nott and put her hand on his shoulder. "Hey, it's alright," she tried to reassure him. "If you don't remember the fight, then you must really not remember a lot of it."

"I'm sorry," Nott tried to apologize.

"Don't," Hermione punched Nott on the shoulder. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault you forgot most of it. I drank a similar amount. There's no way you would have known. Plus, I bet it's pretty scary to be so in the dark."

"Yeah," Nott said. "I'm just not in a good head space at the moment. I should have slept more. I'm not even sure why I'm here."

Hermione chuckled to herself. "I remember asking you last night whether you were sure you'd meet me here. You seemed pretty sure of yourself. Said that you had a way to make sure you didn't forget. It's pretty funny if that worked, even though you don't remember why you had to come back in the first place."

A smile crossed Nott's mouth. The cut felt sharp as his lips changed shape. "Just a normal day in the life of Theodore Nott," he joked.

"If you're curious, this is why we planned to meet here," Hermione said. She put her hand in the chest pocket of her shirt, and pulled out Nott's watch. Her hand extended towards Nott, who grabbed it and rested it in his hands. "It broke during the fight. You were pretty upset about it. I told you I would bring it back to my dorm and fix it with my wand. You seemed to like the idea. So we decided to meet back here this morning so you could grab it.

His watch. This whole fucking morning, his magical trail, everything he went through, was just for his stupid watch. It felt absurd. He had barely noticed that it was missing when he woke up in the morning. It only crossed his mind a few times throughout his odyssey. How ridiculous, and anti-climactic. He thought he was missing something important, instead he was only missing time.

Overwhelmed, Nott began to laugh to himself. It was the only appropriate action Nott could think of. "Thanks," he said to Hermione. Fiddling with the watch in his fingers, he placed it back on his wrist.

"No problem."

What would be the appropriate action now? Nott felt like he was barely there. It was like as if he were a phantom hanging behind his head. Observing the situation from afar, and unable to comprehend it. All of Nott's previous convictions, and ideas seemed silly now. He'd been disconnected from reality. And now he felt no more grounded or present.

"What's the story behind the fight by the way? It's hard to imagine me fighting someone." Nott said, trying to fill in one of the gaps. Hermione was obviously there, and he no longer cared about his own shame.

Hermione though, frowned at the reference to it. "I was quite surprised myself when it happened. I did not expect you to act that way." That was okay, Nott didn't expect himself to act that way either. "Admittedly though, Ernie was acting like an asshole. He had it coming, I'm sure."

Ernie, it was not too surprising that he was the one Nott fought. If anything Nott was glad it was Ernie, so that it was not one of the Honour's kids. It would have been an unfortunate end to the Honours Parties if two of them got into a fist fight. That was not the sort of concluding festivities Nott was hoping for when he decided they should have an after party.

Throughout their years at Hogwarts, Ernie and Nott had not got along well. Ernie was a Quidditch player for HufflePuff, who hung out with the popular crowd. His interest in attending the after party was exclusively his intent to sleep with Hannah. Ernie was one of her unfortunate suitors, and perhaps the one who Nott hated the most. Of all of the people dreaming after her, Ernie's intent was the most shallow. That said, Nott's intent was hardly ideal. Nott had hurt her, and he had not forgiven himself for it. Hopefully though, if Nott had fought Ernie, it was not about Hannah. That would be the worst possible case; the last thing he wanted was to get involved with her that way. She did not need a knight to protect her. It would have only done more damage than good. Even if she was not involved directly, then surely Hannah would assume Ernie's affection had some indirect part to play in the conflict. Nott had to admit that was probably true.

If Nott had to fight someone, did it have to be Ernie? Did he have to fight anyone at all? "It sounds so strange to imagine myself in a fight. Do you have any idea what started it? How was Ernie acting that would have instigated it? What even happened at the party? My memory is mostly blurry. I barely remember Ernie showing up at all."

"Well, we met up with the kids for the after party in the stair well," Hermione began. "There was some debate as to where to hold it, until Ernie showed up. He claimed to know a private classroom near by, so we followed him here."

"You," Hermione blushed a little as she started. Nott barely noticed, but smiled at her shyness. "You were insistent that we share a bottle of whiskey between each other, privately. So we sat in the corner together away from everyone else. We just sort of passed the bottle between each other, which is probably why we both got so fucking drunk." Hermione laughed at herself, seemingly enjoying the memory. "It really is no wonder we got so messed up, but hey, in hindsight everything makes sense."

Nott nodded in agreement. In this moment, Nott realized the proximity between him and Hermione. She was sitting only a couple of inches away. Her chest moved up and down with each breath. Between the buttons of her shirt, Nott could see her skin and her black bra. The shirt was loose; her skin breathed beneath it. She looked wonderful.

He was still exhausted; his head felt like it weighed a ton. All he wanted was to sleep, and to rest his head. All he wanted was to become closer with Hermione. She had rested her hand on his shoulder earlier; the physical barrier was already broken. But did it mean anything? What had happened the night before? Why was Hermione hurt by him forgetting most of the night? Fuck it, he decided, and he rested his head on Hermione's lap.

Hermione paused momentarily in surprise. Her voice squeaked a little, as if caught off guard by Nott's action. But Nott kept his head down. He was too comfortable now. There was no reason to move; it was the last thing he wanted. He wasn't sure if it was confidence or weariness, but it was all he needed. Hermione did not seem to mind. Her gaze kept upwards, and she continued describing the night.

"While we were keeping to ourselves, the rest of the party was enjoying themselves near the door. You'd left your alcohol open to them, and they were sharing the shit we, the Gryffindors, brought. Ernie had turned on a stereo, and was blasting some loud music. You were not a fan of that. I think you kept standing up to tell him to turn it down, but Ernie was more interested in hitting on Hannah than listening to you. We were afraid that it would be loud enough to draw the attention of the faculty who were cleaning up after the Honours Party. I mean, we're not very far from there. The rest of the school was empty by then, so the sound would have carried far."

Pausing momentarily, Hermione rested her hand on Nott's face. Her hand was cold and delicate. The contact was soothing. During the touch, Nott forgot about his body. He forgot about his cut lip; his aching left leg; the dryness of the back of his throat; the hole in his head pulling his eyes back; he forgot about himself. His focus was just on the hand, and how wonderful it felt.

"We sort of kept drinking together, and forgot about the rest of them for a bit." Hermione seemed a little embarrassed describing their solitude. How close had they been the night before? However it was, Nott was not in a position to mind. "Then you," she stopped; Nott looked up to see that her face was red. "Then you suggested we dance. Like a slow dance. We changed the music, so it was a little more fitting and less loud."

Nott was sure she was letting out some of the details, but he did not need to know everything. As she spoke, small pictures in his memory started to become more focused. The order of those snippets were becoming clearer. Sounded like his night was pretty successful, at least so far.

"Then Ernie changed the music back to some bumping techno, except this time it was even louder. You were pretty agitated by it. I suggested we join with the Gryffindors. You were pretty quiet, and just sort of kept to yourself. I don't remember what exactly happened around then."

"Sometime afterwards, Ernie took out his cigarettes and started to smoke in the classroom. You looked pretty angry. A bit after he started to smoke, you stood up and mumbled something about trying to ruin the party, and being punk rock. Then you walked over to Ernie and kicked him in the stomach. Ernie fell over, probably a little surprised you did that. You grabbed a couple of the cigarettes off of the ground and stuffed them into your pocket. Then Ernie got up, and tackled you to the ground. He got a couple punches on you, then Draco and Terry broke you guys up."

Nott frowned. "Sounds like I got my ass kicked."

"Basically. It was a pretty stupid thing to do. I can't imagine what you were hoping to accomplish by it." Hermione sighed. She leaned forward, putting more of her weight on Nott, and bringing them closer.

"Unfortunately, I can't imagine it either. It almost feels like you're talking about someone else. Like it's me, but it's not me." Nott tried to explain.

"I understand."

Why did he grab the cigarettes off of the ground? He could not sympathize with his past, drunk, self. It was probably some drunken logic that inspired him, which was the same logic that inspired him to fight Ernie in the first place. What a mess. At least he understood now why he had three cigarettes. It had seemed like such a strange number, now it partly made sense. There was no reason for three, it just happened to be the number he grabbed.

"Thanks for telling me the story, it would have been pretty weird meeting people if I did not remember it. I'm sure it's going to be a gossip topic for a while." Nott knew people were not going to let him live this down. There were few stories to be told about Nott. Now, he was sure, people were going to start referring to the weird guy who kicked Ernie. Well, if you have to be known by something, he guessed there are worse options. It did sound pretty punk rock, and that was cool.

Hermione nodded her head in acknowledgement. "I've already been asked about it a couple times this morning. You're going to be a hot topic, at least until someone else does something stupid."

"Cool."

Nott looked around the room. It's funny that all of this happened right here. If Nott had to take something positive out of the whole situation, was that he finally made the Honours kids relevant. For once, the 'it' story at the school was focused on the stick in the muds. The kids who are known for being lame, or too afraid to do anything interesting, are now known for the opposite. Was it worth getting into a fight over? Probably not. But Nott was content in being their martyr nonetheless. Perhaps that was a little bit of an exaggeration.

"Did anything else interesting happen at the party?" Nott asked. He raised himself from Hermione's lap. There was no reason to keep burdening her with his weight. She was probably as sore and exhausted as he was; Nott laying on her could not have been too comfortable.

Watching as Nott sat up, Hermione kept silent. Her expression was neutral. Either she was lost in thought or she was too consumed in Nott to reply. Patiently, Nott kept silent until Hermione responded.

"Well," Hermione smiled. "You did kiss me."

The missing piece: a kiss. That was why Hermione looked hurt when Nott admitted to his shoddy memory. They must have shared something last night. Something which Nott seemed to be missing in his memory. A kiss, that's impressive. Nott had always been too shy to do something so brash. Perhaps it was necessary to get black out drunk; the cure for penetrating timidity.

"I guess that counts as interesting." Nott replied. "Was it any good?"

"Nope," said Hermione. "It was sloppy and awkward. But that's okay, the next couple were not so bad." A playful smirk grew across Hermione's face.

Nott felt himself blush. He had really been brash. A fight with Ernie, and make outs with Hermione? That was one hell of a party. Secretly, he sort of hoped that was it. He could not take any more revelations. If there was any more, then he was uninterested. He had met his satisfied quota for the day.

A sense of accomplishment came over Nott. For once, it seemed as though he had succeeded. During the Honour's party, he had decided he wanted to hang out with Hermione. Above anything else, he had wanted to spend time with her. From the second he saw her in her green army jacket over her black dress, the anomaly awkwardly hiding herself, he wanted her. He wanted her to stop hiding herself, but also not to feel ashamed for how she felt. If she didn't want to rock the dress, and instead wear the jacket, then that was cool. She was cool.

With a blinding sense of courage, Nott turned his body to Hermione. Before she could react, he kissed her. A deep and intimate kiss, which lasted a few seconds. Hermione melted into Nott's arms; the two of them holding each other up. Both of their sicknesses shared.

As they pulled away, Hermione said "well that was definitely better than the first time."

"Thought I needed to make up for it," Nott replied.

"I hope that was not the only reason," Hermione said in jest.

"Nope."

"Good."

The two of them sat in silence, leaning on each other. For the first time in the morning, Nott did not think. Nothing crossed his mind. He was just comfortable; content with where he was and what he was doing. Questions of why he was here, where he was going, and who he was, seemed unimportant. He just wanted to live in this moment. Experience all of the sensations; Hermione's breathing on his neck.

In his grandfather's house, surrounded by the statues, in his midnight city, Nott had always tried to define himself. But now Nott realized how that was a foolish endeavour. Any definition was an ideal: an apparition. He would never be the ideal; the ideal could never be him.

Instead, Theodore Nott was just the person who had his arms wrapped around Hermione. He was the person who had made mistakes. He was the person who talked to statues as a kid. He was the person who made Hannah cry. He was the person who kicked Ernie. He was the person who hung outside his grandfather's door, hoping for praise. He was the student at Hogwarts. He was the person with a massive hangover. He was the person who had his arms wrapped around Hermione.

He was Nott. And that was okay.

...

_The End_

...

Author's Notes: I'm actually kind of sad to finish this story. It has been a while since I've had as much fun writing a story. I hope you enjoyed reading it too! Feel free to review.

Thanks. BJ.


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